


Like It Was Made For You

by luninosity, orphan_account



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Coffee, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m pregnant,” James says. This excuse works, as it has for the past seven and a half months. He’s beginning to feel a bit guilty about this, but only a bit, since he’s also feeling the size of a whale and distinctly uncomfortable. Michael smiles.</p>
<p>Or: adventures with tabasco sauce, hot coffee, hurt/comfort, and sunny mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like It Was Made For You

**Author's Note:**

> Title from OneRepublic's "Made For You."

"I’m pregnant,” James says. This excuse works, as it has for the past seven and a half months. He’s beginning to feel a bit guilty about this, but only a bit, since he’s also feeling the size of a whale and distinctly uncomfortable.

Michael smiles, the same fond smile he always gets when James puts those words together, and rests a hand over James’ stomach, curving out under the sweater. Over their baby, beneath. “So you are.”

“I’m pregnant and I want tabasco sauce. On the eggs.”

“We don’t have any. You don’t even like tabasco sauce.”

“I think the baby does. She thinks your eggs need flavour.”

“Christ,” Michael muses, “I’ve spawned a food critic.” But this verdict’s delivered with another tender pat, and another enormous besotted grin.

“I believe I had something to do with the conception,” James says, not as loftily as he means to. Michael’s other hand is petting his hair, and he’s tempted to just curl up and go back to sleep, secure in the sunlight of the morning and Michael’s love.

Except a foot thumps him in the kidney, and he winces. Michael’s hand stills, alarmed. “It’s fine,” James tells him, and nudges his face into Michael’s hand, someplace between a kiss and a nibble at fingers. “Go find us tabasco sauce.”

“Love,” Michael says, amused, and kisses him. “Don’t get up until I get back. Don’t even move, not a foot out of this bed, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” James agrees, throwing a jaunty salute in there just for effect, and Michael rolls his eyes. “Seriously, please.”

“I don’t want to get up, anyway.”

“If you’re--”

“I’m fine. My knee doesn't hurt, not even with weight on it--even this much weight--my stomach’s okay, I’m only tired. Go on.”

Michael does, with one last kiss, delivered to the back of James’ hand like an old-fashioned gallantry. James laughs, and then, alarmingly, wants to weep, because hormones are not his friend.

He doesn't, though. Glares at his stomach instead. “Your fault,” he tells their daughter. “I never used to be this fuckin’ sentimental.” The baby says nothing, only throws her weight around, which he concludes is her way of winning the argument. Michael’d likely remind him to please not swear in front of her, thank you, James; that one’s going to be a lost cause, though, since half the time he doesn't notice when he’s doing it. Anyway, it’s only a word, right? Historical antecedents, even. Latin.

He lies there on his back gazing at the sunbeam for a while, as it travels pleasantly along the wall. Gold and white and radiant: that’s this morning, throughout. Himself, and their daughter, and Michael, and a nursery that’s painted with ocean-waves and fairy-tale creatures, selkies and mermaids and the wild fae of Michael’s Celtic boyhood peeping out from behind trees. This house, with its comfortable old bones and shiny earnest new appliances they both adore in the kitchen. An oven fit for testing recipes together, a glorious copper-and-steel kaleidoscope of pots and pans arranged on hooks, the brand-new decadent and expensive coffee-maker, and he can’t think of anything else he could possibly want, ever, in this life with his husband and their family…

...the coffee-maker. Sitting there. Beans waiting expectantly beside it. Dark roasted spicy rich warmth in a mug, maybe with hazelnut cream, or caramel coconut, or…

Oh, fuck.

He looks at the door, which looks as smug as only a slab of wood that’s taken Michael’s edict to heart can look. Pushes his unwieldy body upright, elbow squashing a pillow. Considers the distance to the kitchen.

Their daughter kicks him in the kidney again.

“Hey, no objections,” he says, out loud, “this is your fault. And I technically only told him yes, I understood.”

Michael’s probably going to throw the tabasco sauce at him, except not seriously, for fear of actually connecting. There might be shouting, though.

But he really wants the coffee.

He sighs, and starts contemplating the fewest number of manoeuvres required to haul himself upright. Sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed; stays like that for a moment as he feels their daughter wiggle, and rubs his stomach.

“I am getting coffee and you can’t stop me,” he says, standing and heading towards the door. “And neither can you.”

The door doesn't object, hopefully intimidated by his masterful glare, so he heads towards the kitchen. Despite years of doing yoga and performing his own stunts, the added weight of pregnancy does cause him to move a tad slower; he won’t be running and leaping over a car anytime soon. He doesn't mind the lack of car-leaping or other achievements of his past; the trade’s definitely worth it for the little being occasionally using his organs as punching bags. Their little girl, part him and part Michael.

“Daddy still wants coffee,” he says, as she kicks him again.

The coffeemaker perks up to greet him where it sits as he enters the kitchen, all its shiny bits and bobs practically calling to him. He grabs one of his favourite mugs from the cupboard, uses it to add the water, and sets it under the drip. Packs the beans into the small filter, puts it in the maker and turns it on. Listens to the momentary noise, the water heating and run through the machine and pressed through the beans. Watches the rich brown liquid fill the mug, offering warmth and deliciousness. James smiles, rubbing his stomach--more a comforting act than genuine necessity, this time--and contemplates the various flavour options. Hazelnut cream. Yes.

As the mug nears full, James reaches for it; and as he does, their daughter continues to object to his desire for coffee. Or maybe she dislikes hazelnut, or maybe she’s a fan of tea instead; but in any case the kick’s a shock. Causes him to jerk from the impact. And his hand knocks the coffee mug.

And _that_ pain’s instant, and scalding.

“Ahh… fuck!” And he’s just cursed around their baby again, so he mutters “fuck” and then realises what he’s just done. He gives up after that, because, well, he’s just burned the hell out of his hand. He’s entitled. She’s half his kid. She’ll understand.

He smacks the off button with his uninjured hand, sighs, finds the sink and cool--not ice-cold, he knows that much about first-aid--water, and flinches with relief. Wonders whether they have aloe or burn ointment or, hell, there ought to be a full first-aid kit in the kitchen, he and Michael’ve both on occasion injured themselves during experimental dinner-prep, small cuts and nicks from knives and on one memorable occasion the wounds of an angry cheese-grater, and if they had a first-aid kit in the kitchen then he’d not have to waddle all the way down the hall to the toilet...

“That wasn't very nice,” he says to his stomach. “You’re lucky I love you.”

No new movement from their daughter occurs. James sighs and gives a gentle rub to his stomach with his good hand.

“It’s okay. My fault, not yours.” This earns what’s most likely an elbow to his spleen, so he’s pretty sure he’s forgiven. He’s also completely aware that he should call Michael, because his husband would quite like to know that James has just injured himself, but Michael’s likely to be home in a few minutes anyway, and his mobile’s back in the bedroom. That hallway’s already mocking him, and the bathroom’s only the first door down.

The cool water in the kitchen sink’s starting to take away the pain, transmuting it into a dull ache. He tests flexing his fingers, gauging the damage: not as bad as it first seemed, though it’s going to hurt, and possibly stay pink and shiny for a while.

He eyes his hand. Eyes the shattered mug and coffee debris on the floor. It sits there apologetically. “All right,” he concedes, “not your fault either,” and sighs again.

He’ll have to bandage his hand before he can clean up the mess, and he won’t get both done before Michael returns. Makeshift solutions, then. He grabs the nearest dishtowel. It’ll at least mark the spot.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his stomach, their daughter being uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe she’s worried, too.

He makes his way to the bathroom and fumbles the first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet. Struggles to open the burn ointment one-handed--at least it’s not his right hand, or both; he could’ve splashed himself so many worse places, after all. Like his stomach, for one. Despite the sweater.

“Your father might be a bit mad at me,” he admits, managing to squirt healing gel across his entire hand, “but I am okay and you’re okay and I am handling this just fine on my own. He worries about us. Too much sometimes, but it’s because he loves us and wants us to be safe and happy. You’re a very lucky girl, having a father like him.”

Ointment, blessed numbing, acetaminophen for the pain; gauze pad on his hand, secured in place with a bandage; their daughter gives a kick, approving. “All better,” he promises, smiling at his stomach.

Back in the kitchen, he stares at his temporary dishtowel solution. Contemplates the logistics of himself getting down on the floor. And then hears the front door.

Michael comes in with a paper bag in one hand and keys in the other, kicking the door open with a foot; he nearly drops all of the above, eyes going first to James’ with a smile, then widening in shock. “I knew you’d be out of bed when I--oh God--James, what--”

“It’s fine,” James interrupts desperately, and catches the bag before it can hit the ground. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I took care of it--”

“What _happened?”_

“Sara sort of kicked me and I had coffee in one hand--”

“Let me see that.” Michael’s hands’re warm, loving, and worried, cradling his. “Also, Sara? Thinking of baby names without me?”

“I did take care of it.” But he doesn’t try to take the hand away. The comfort feels too good; and all at once he’s not sure why he didn’t call Michael the instant it happened. “I think Kate doesn’t want me out of bed today. And I'm only testing them out. Wouldn’t decide without you.”

“That one's too close to my sister's. But a C or K name might be nice.” Michael’s continued to not look up, running fingers ceaselessly around the edges of the bandage. “Why didn’t you call?”

“It just happened, and I didn’t want to--”

_“Don’t_ say you didn’t want to worry me.”

“No…” To his horror, his voice cracks. Bloody hormones. Michael’s home and Michael’s angry with him and his hand’s throbbing and he still wants coffee and breakfast, shamefully so, how can he ask Michael for anything more when he knows he’s already in the wrong about not calling…

“I just thought,” he manages, “you’d be home soon and I could handle it, I wanted to handle it, I wanted--you’re doing so much for us and I can’t--”

“Oh,” Michael says, plus a few far less polite words. “Oh, James, don’t--are you crying, don’t cry, unless you need to, it’s all right, I’m here, I’m not upset--okay, I am, sort of, but I know why you’d--but I want to know, all right, please call me if something happens, I love you, I love you and Kara, y’know?”

James swallows. Sniffs. His nose is running and his eyes feel damp, and somehow he’s ended up in Michael’s lap, the two of them settled into a sympathetic kitchen chair, Michael’s hand stroking his hair. He leans his head against Michael’s shoulder. Shuts his eyes. Feels Michael’s next breath against his forehead. “...yes. I know, yes, I’m sorry. I love you. And oh--that's not one on my list.” And there is a tangible list, sitting on the nightstand. James has kept periodically adding to it, ever since they'd found out they were going to have a daughter.

“No.” Michael kisses his eyebrow, lightly. “I've been thinking, too. Better?”

“Getting there. I’m just…”

“Extremely pregnant?” Borrowing his excuse from earlier, teasing, still with that undercurrent of concern. James nods.

“I love that you’re extremely pregnant,” Michael says, and kisses the other eyebrow this time. “And I love you. I’ll say it again if you need me to. You having bandages on when I get home is quite possibly the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not angry with you. But I was scared. I am scared. How bad is it?”

“It’s really not.” He blinks. Fresh tears. Michael’s thumb skims his eyelashes, helping sweep them away. “It hurts, but I held it under cool water, I put ointment on it, that’s a clean pad...no blisters or anything...it’ll heal. If it’d been worse I’d’ve called. I swear.”

And Michael nods. “Okay.”

“...okay?”

“Okay, yes, we’re okay, I believe you, and if it doesn’t look like it’s getting better in a day or so, I get to take you to the closest hospital. If you feel like...if you want to--to do something--I like cooking for you, I still want to make breakfast for you and Colleen but--you can help, maybe? If you feel up to that? Chop peppers for us, or a tomato?”

“I can grate cheese,” James says, after a second in which he does not cry for the third time this morning, while Michael rubs his back right where he needs the massage. “Or crack eggs. I can crack eggs one-handed, you know. Not because I’m hurt. Because I’m that talented. In a kitchen.”

“You’re talented everywhere,” Michael says, “in every conceivable place, in every conceivable way. Stay put for just a sec, while I clean this up, and then we’re making breakfast together, all right?”

James nods and Michael kisses him once more, on the lips this time and firm and affectionate, before grabbing paper towels and eyeing broken ceramic with determination. Watching him, James puts a hand on his stomach--their daughter approves of her fathers being happy, and is showing it through elaborate water-ballet moves--and finds himself glad Michael’s here.

He always is glad Michael’s here, of course. But now, right now, it’s painfully beautifully true; and his heart aches with it, with simple clear fondness for this man.

He says, "I think we should put a first-aid kit in the kitchen. And maybe a couple others throughout the house. In case. Not that I'm planning on getting hurt again. But, y’know, she is our daughter."

He has to grin, at that, at those words. Their daughter, who will no doubt take after her fathers. Besides, children’re accident- and injury-prone all on their own even without a family penchant for it.

"Sounds like a good idea.” Michael’s finishing clean-up, tossing paper towels away, smiling. They’re okay. They’re wonderful. "We'll definitely keep her away from golf carts."

James chuckles as Michael winks at him and walks back over and helps James to his feet. He places his hands against James' stomach, next to James' hands, and their daughter kicks cheerfully at both of them.

"So, breakfast. Scrambled eggs or omelette?" Michael asks.

"That fantastic vegetarian omelette recipe you found online? But with sausage in too?" Both he and their daughter are craving a decent meal. Especially after the morning they've had so far.

"That’s no longer vegetarian, you are aware."

“I’m aware. We want sausage anyway. Love you.”

Michael laughs, and pulls out the pans and cutting boards, while James grabs ingredients from the fridge; Michael cuts up colorful vegetables, and James cracks open eggs one-handed, because he'd said he could and Michael likes watching him do it--and hasn't yet mastered the trick despite the number of times James has tried to teach him. And they conjure breakfast together, in the sunlit kitchen.

James fries the sausage in two different ways. Michael likes it crispier, and that’s just as easy as doing it one way--well, maybe not just as easy, but he pretends it is. Michael glances at him, and says nothing about this, but smiles faintly and trails fingers over his arm, over the soft knit of the sweater, fingertips smiling too. Michael ends up putting food onto plates, though, as James has to pause and rub at his back.

"How about you get back into bed and I can sort of bring you breakfast in bed?" The last part of the question’s an obvious addition. Michael trying to ensure that James won’t protest.

"But I'm already here," James says, protesting anyway.

"I know, but bed would be much more comfortable for you. Both."

He eyes the sturdy wood chairs at the dining table, and knows Michael's right. He can and has sat in them for meals, but as the pregnancy goes on, they've become uncomfortable in ways he's never known to be possible and his back protests more and more against anything that isn't soft and cushioned.

"...all right. Breakfast in bed sounds lovely."

"Go on, get comfy and I'll be right in with our food." With a kiss, possibly out of gratitude for the lack of argument.

James kisses enthusiastically back, and makes his way out of the kitchen, though not before he spots Michael fishing a new mug out of the cupboard. In bed, he makes himself comfortable, pillows between his back and the headboard. He does grab his list, adding the names Michael'd suggested to it, smiling at it and all the potential. They've already agreed to not decide on a name until she's born; they both want to pick one that'll definitely fit her once she's a squirming little bundle in their arms.

Michael comes in, tray in one hand balancing food and mug as well as that newly-acquired tabasco sauce; the little legs of the tray are already flipped out, Michael having thought ahead, so it can sit more easily in front of James without his stomach getting in the way.

"Thank you," James says, meaning it, meaning it in so many ways, as Michael hands him the mug.

"I almost made you hot chocolate instead...I sort of thought maybe you wouldn't want the coffee... but I did make it. Unless you'd prefer hot chocolate." Michael still sounds a tiny bit worried. Obviously wanting to do whatever he can to help.

"No, coffee is fine. I did go through a lot of effort for it." There is something, though. And it’ll make Michael smile, too. It’ll give those worried eyes something to do.  "I would like the hazelnut cream, though. Please."

And some of the worry lifts away. A clearer morning. Sunshine and emerald Irish hills. Michael vanishes momentarily. Returns.

"Thank you, love."

"You're welcome, love. Anything else?"

"Nope. Just you and food."

Michael smiles again at that, settling like a watchful lion on the other side of the bed. James contemplates hazelnut caffeine, tabasco sauce, eggs, and Michael’s lean long-legged warmth at his side. Everything he needs. Yes.

When they're done with breakfast, Michael sets the tray aside, but leaves the mug on the bedside table. Within easy reach, even for a bandaged hand.

And James curls up against Michael, head resting against his chest, with Michael's arms around him, with their hands linked over his stomach, over their daughter, in the morning sun.


End file.
